


Beyond Modesty

by Alayne_StoneColdFox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Coming of Age, Corruption, F/M, Loss of Innocence, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/pseuds/Alayne_StoneColdFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In polite society, among the upper class London social scene, it is of utmost importance that a girl must practise proper etiquette and retain her virtues.</p><p>Young Sansa Stark may find herself having trouble with both, if she continues to be so enraptured by a man of such notorious ill repute as Mr. Baelish.</p><p>Victorian AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Modesty

I am heartbroken, a girl left devastated from the cruelties of love, what promise I had laid before me in life is now in shatters. I have cried more in the last week than I can ever remember crying, and now I lye here on my bed and think I have simply run out of tears. Mother assures me it will stop hurting soon but soon doesn't feel close enough, I couldn't imagine ever feeling well again after this. How could she understand, when she has father to love her, and I have no one, will probably never have anyone else again, because no one will ever spark the same kind of love I once felt for the boy who is leaving me to marry another. What a sad story I am. How truly pathetic and un-loved and forgotten, destined to live the life of a spinster.

“Oh for god sake, can you stop looking so utterly tragic!”

I rise my head off my pillow only to glare at Arya, as she sits on the edge of her bed in the room we so unfortunately share, lacing up her boots, getting ready to go out when I lye here in my night gown without the strength to face the world.

“Do you have no sympathy for me at all?” I ask.

She curls her lip and shrugs “No.”

I scoff “Of course you wouldn't. You're too young and you've never been in love. Well, I hope you never feel what I feel now, I would never wish this pain upon anyone, even my own horrible un-feeling sister!”

“You know even father thinks you're being dramatic.” she mutters and I throw one of my pillows at her. The nerve of her to call me dramatic!

“Of course that's what father says, he's the one who tore us apart! He is glad to see Joffrey marry Margaery instead of me!”

“I would have thought you might be a little glad to see Joffrey marry that girl instead of you, considering what a royal prat he was!”

Royal, royal, royal the word taunts me as Arya quickly flees the room to avoid the other pillow I hurl at the door that she closed too quickly behind her. I was almost a royal! I would have lived my life in a palace with Joffrey and his family, gone to balls and galas of the highest order, with the finest company in the country, but no. That was all Margaery's now, and I had come all the way to London for nothing. The season was coming up and now I was not to be the belle of the evening, attached to Joffrey's arm as he led me through dance after dance, I was only to be the talk of gossip. There she is, the girl he didn't choose. The girl he discarded in favour for another! It will be all luck for me to even be invited now! I was to be talked about for all the wrong reasons.

I said I no longer felt I could conjure anymore tears, but to my credit, I still find myself able to let out a few more.

With my face in what pillows I have remaining on my bed, I stay like that until I heard a soft rap of knuckles on my door. The way father does it.

“Sansa?” I hear him question through the door, but I don't answer, as I want him to know precisely how upset I still am with him, as I have been letting him know all week. I hear him sigh his gruff kind of sigh through the wood, and I want to call out how I heard that, how I know my suffering must be tiresome for him, and how very sorry I am, to be the the inconvenience of a girl with her heart broken in two!

“Sansa, love, are you coming to church? You know you're mother would be upset if you don't come.”

He used my affection for mother against me, and it works to tug at my resolve a little, but not enough to move me.

“I'm ill.” I call back to him, pulling up the covers, deciding if he wanted me to go anywhere, he would have to drag me himself. 

Now, usually, I am not like this. Usually I am the most well behaved of all my siblings, I promise you, even if it would not seem so now. My heartbreak and my indignation have simply given me a spirit of disobedience which was not natural to me. I imagine it's put my father at somewhat of a loss.

“Sansa, you're not ill...” he mutters through the door, but he sounds more tired than angry, whereas I am of course, angry.

“I am, and I can't come to church, I'll be sick in the pews!” I yell like a child.

“Sansa-”

“I'm not coming!”

I hear another of those gruff sighs, and then footsteps shuffle off along the landing, heavy sounding, then a moment later more steps, lighter ones, and mothers voice, and Arya's, but I can't make out what they're saying, but I know they are discussing me.

Finally, someone opens the door, and I cannot see who as I lay in bed facing the wall, all curled up under the covers, but I flinch, almost readying myself to be dragged from the bed against my will. Plus I know myself well enough to predict that if anyone was to start truly yelling at me, I doubted I could up this kind of behaviour any longer. I hate more than anything to be yelled at.

“Sansa,” my mothers voice says quite curtly “We are going to church now, as is the rest of the household, so if you insist on staying here then you are to stay here in your bed, and don't think that this is to be a regular occurrence. You're to come with us next week without any of this silliness, understand?”

I give a little noise, a murmur of a yes. She is not yelling, but she does not sound happy.

The door shuts behind her and I hear Arya whining that she shouldn't have to go either if I don't, but she is quickly shushed by father, and by then they have all moved beyond my hearing.

O0o0o00o00o000o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

With even the maids gone down for their Sunday morning prayers, I wander through our still new London home with the sense that I should be doing something more with this chance. A house all to myself. I walk from room to room and try to think of something special I could do, so as not to waste this all too precious time, but it is almost as if this time is too precious, that I can't think of anything worthy of it. I could appreciate the silence and sit and read, but then I always manage to read and escape into a book even as Bran and Rickon and Arya run rampant through the drawing rooms, playing whichever child game had taken their fancy for the afternoon. They used to have me play the damsel or the princess they were to kidnap or rescue, but I am much to old to join in with such games now. Rickon had tried to insist Arya play the kidnapped princess and that had only led to an argument.

Perhaps I could use my watercolours and do a picture, without the fear of anyone bothering me or asking to use the palette I had gotten as a gift from my uncle Benjen two christmas's ago. I had let Arya use it once and she had gotten black into the yellow and made the orange into a murky brown coloured mess somehow.  
I wander through the empty house in my day dress, for at least I have managed to change from my night gown, though I haven't bothered to put up my hair in anyway, leaving it loose and un-pinned, and I have no idea what to do with myself.

I was only passing through the front drawing room when I heard a sudden knock on the front door. I stopped and wondered who an earth that could be, and feared maybe it was father or mother come back to check on me, where they'd find me out of bed, exactly how they'd asked me not too.

I went to the window with a sense of dread, kneeling up on the cushions of the alcoved seat to pull back the sheer curtains, to peer out at the steps of the front door, where stood a man.

Now my dread left me, replaced with curiosity.

He was well dressed to be sure, I noticed before anything else, in a suit and fine wool coat and hat, and polished pointed shoes. By his slender form I at first thought he may have been a young man, but from the turn of his head I saw the creases around deep set eyes, his short goatee and moustache, and skin touched by age.

It was then the man turned his head even further, and his gaze happened to fall on me in my little hiding spot poking around from the curtains. Immediately drawing myself back, I blushed at being caught, as just then he knocked once more, as of course he knew the house was not empty now. It wouldn't do to hide, whoever he was, so I stood up and fluffed down my skirts to try and compose myself fittingly.

I made my way down the hall, fingers pausing briefly on the brass door handle. Should I answer to this stranger? We hadn't long been in London, and father liked to often warn us children of how vile and wicked this city could be, even if nothing had come of his talk yet. This man didn't look like some kind of vagabond,in fact, he looked as much of a gentleman as I could imagine. Then of course what if he was a man of some importance? What if I blatantly ignored him and he took offence? Perhaps I would be committing a social faux pas against a very important kind of man indeed, and then this instance would haunt me in the season to come, and all sorts of talk would be made about me and my rudeness. Then he knocks quickly again and I snap myself out of silly thoughts, and pull the door open, chancing to at least ask him what his business is here.

He stood on the front step, and our eyes met at once, for he was the same height as me, perhaps even an inch shorter.

“Hello?,” I said, only opening the door wide enough for my self to be seen, with my hands kept firmly on the door, in case I needed to close it quickly.

He seems about to say something, but he stops, lips paused as if the words he'd so intended to say have been snatched from him quite suddenly, and then I would describe his gaze as nothing but brazen. He let his eyes roam over the entirety of my form, in which I felt my air, my person, and whole figure come under some sort of examination, and he seemed to have the least regard to the confusion and blushes his eyeing me so put me too. On my part, with dignity, I tried to render his summations favourable to me, by standing tall, with hands still clasped firmly on the door, setting my best looks regardless. Indeed he seemed to smile, his demeanour one of a man quite pleased to see me, but I of course should see no reason for him too be pleased to see me at all, as I was sure I had never seen this man in my life.

“My word,” he said after a moment “you must be one of her little daughters. Not so little anymore it would seem... my, what a spitting image of her you are...”

I blinked as I was utterly un-sure of what to say. He seemed to sense my confusion as at once he let out a small laugh.

“Oh, god, where are my senses? I haven't introduced myself and of course you've no idea who I am. My name is Petyr Baelish. I've come here on word that this is where Lady Catelyn Tully lives?”

“My mother.” I say aloud, finally understanding something of this mans purpose “But her name isn't Tully, it's Stark. Catelyn Stark.”

He nods “Ah, yes, of course. It was only that I knew her as Catelyn Tully many years ago. We were old friends, children when we met, barely just adults when we last parted, still before she wed. As such I have had no such practice in referring to her as Lady Stark.”

He has a smooth sounding voice and an accent that indicates an education and wealth, and in some form, that settles me, as does the fact that he knew my mothers maiden name. That he had apparently been a friend of her from her girlhood.

“I'm afraid if you're here to see my mother, she's out at church at the moment, and she won't be due back until later this morning.”

At once his smile pulls quite thin “Church.” he grimaces the word, and I see a realisation dawning on him “naturally. It's a Sunday morning isn't it...she was ever the good church goer.” he mutters, and I imagine he must feel quite foolish, having obviously not realised, or simply having forgotten.

Then he glances back to me with a little frown that he strangely paired with a smile “And why are you not at church with her, sweet girl?”

I shift a little on my feet “I'm ill.” I say, entirely unconvincingly.

“Well, you look well enough to me. Theres colour to your cheeks, to be sure.” he teased, as by now I would say I was blushing.

“And why are you not in church yourself sir?” I ask back, and at that he laughs and seems to think on his answer.

“Perhaps I am simply ill too.” and he says it in such a way that I cannot help but smile with him, and I do not feel so bad for my lie. I feel quite a murmur of pride of seemingly sharing a little joke with such a well spoken gentlemen, in all his finery. He is surely the most interesting thing that could happen on a morning like this. I had only just be complaining that I was bored, and I certainly wasn't bored anymore.

I glance up to the small clock that sits on a decorative table in our entrance way “I'm sure mother may be back within the hour, or not much longer. If you'd like you're welcome to come in and wait for her?”

He looks at me with some kind of surprise, before smiling “Why, absolutely, if you have no qualms with that.”

I open the door for him and he enters, taking off his hat as he does so, where I see the shine of pomade in his hair, though it can't quite flatten down the slight curl to the black tresses, specked with grey at the temples. There was a distinct elegance to him as he walked, something of a natural grace in his movements. His eyes flick around the entrance hall, but never do they rest on one thing. He takes it all in idly, and it seems the only thing he truly stared at with impropriety had been me myself.

“And I'm sorry, my dear, I haven't caught your name?” he asks, as I close the door behind us, leading him through to the parlour.

“It's Sansa,” I say, very aware of my un-pinned hair now, as we sit.

“Sansa,” he repeats “What a pretty name. I can't say I've met any Sansa's in my life.”

I smile, quite flattered “People say it's quite an unusual name.”

“Unusual is a touch better than dull, I'd say. I've met far too many Mary's and Elizabeth's and Charlottes, enough to last me a lifetime. To meet a Sansa is a refreshing change.”

As we sit across from each other on the edges of well kept chesterfield sofa's, I at once think to play the hostess role properly. I was the lady of the house, as it were for the moment.

“Would you like a drink, Mr Baelish? I can make tea?”

He stared up at me as I stood “You would wait upon me yourself? Don't tell me you've been left here alone?”

“Mother always allows the staff to go down to their local church on Sundays...”

“and a good woman she is for it, no doubt, but to leave such a young girl alone,” he tuts “Well, who knows what could happen.”

“I am sixteen,” I say to ease his worries “and sometimes I am even left to look after my younger siblings all by myself, if we were to go down and play in the fields or the woods...though, of course, that was in our old home. There aren't many fields or woods here in London.”

“There aren't, though there are the un-savoury types, many more than there would be in the country side you're most used too.”

“Well, I haven't come across any un-savoury types yet.”

He smiles at me “I am glad to hear it. Do you mind if I smoke?” then he folds his leg over the other and pulls out a cigarette case. A lovely silver embossed thing, with twirling vines and little birds.

“Oh, no, go ahead.” I say, thinking he really ought to not smoke in front of a lady, in a house that was not his. Surely he should know as much, and that I could hardly say no. 

“Now I can't say I'm much of a tea drinker but if you had some wine, that would be well appreciated.”

I nod, forgiving his cigarette as I did his stares “We have wine...and would you like some biscuits?”

He laughs again “Wine and biscuits?” the cigarette case click shut again as he holds one of the thin white sticks between his fingers “Why not.”

I hurry myself to the kitchen to pour a glass from the decanter of red, hoping to myself he doesn't ask what kind of wine it is, or where it's made, because I haven't a clue. I arrange a plate full of biscuits from the tin, and stumble upon a ginger cake under a glass dome in the pantry, made the day before, which we had for dessert last night. I decided to cut a generous portion and place that on the plate as well.

Carrying this all in I think I am doing rather well, even as I still wished my hair was pinned and nicely done, as I come in to find Mr Baelish, with his cigarette now lit, smoking idly.

“Ah, what a selection. I am served like the gods!” he approved as I placed the plate on the low coffee table, handing him his wine, hiding my smile. I thought to grace the table with a glass ash tray, so he could have a sip, and taste the cake, seeming pleased enough. He asked if I had made it, and for a second I wished I had, so that he may praise me some more, but I thought it best not to lie for the second time.

“So, you said you were friends with my mother when you were younger.” I ask, reaching for a biscuit to nibble as I have not yet had my breakfast, and in fact barely touched my dinner last night for my grief. Funny how sitting here now this stranger, Mr, Baelish, had made me forget my depression over Joffrey for a moment.

He nods “when we were very much younger, yes. We first met when I was, say, around eight? If I recall correctly. Your mother would have been eleven.”

“And how did you meet?”

“Through our families. Our fathers knew one another.”

“Oh, how nice. Were they good friends?”

“My father always made it sound as if that were the case, though that could well have been him stretching the truth of it. My father always had a lust to chase his social betters, to ride their coat tails, and as such, years later, he knew Hoster Tully owned a school of great repute, and inquired to get me placed there. Your grandfather agreed, for whatever reason, kind hearted man that he was, and I was shipped to board at the school to get my education.”

“And that's where you met my mother?” I fill in the rest of the story with my own knowledge, my mother having told me about growing up as a headmasters daughter, her family living in private quarters of the old stone school building.

“We were fast friends, even as she was a couple years older than me. I knew Lysa and Edmure, your aunt and your uncle, too. See, I never liked going home for the holidays. I stayed at the school over term breaks when all the other students had gone home, so often it was just us and another handful of students, and would spend the entire summer together. Taking paddle boats out to the lake, chasing cats, having races down the steepest hills we could find. Blessed summers they were, some of the happiest times of my life.”

“Mother always spoke fondly of the school. Rob and Jon both went when they were boys, and they always spoke of the lakes too. Mother keeps saying she wishes to go and visit again.”

“Mm, as I understand it, your family has scarcely travelled from the country estate at all. I waited for what felt like an age for your mother to do so much as even visit London, and after the passing years I simply gave in, and resigned myself to the fact that she may never come down from up north. Until now of course, when I hear she is to begin living here.”

A smile breaks over my face “Yes, she never wanted to come to London, not until Father had business here.”

“You seem glad to be here, at least.”

“Oh, yes, it's so much more exciting! I love the shops, and the parks, and the theatre! We've only been to see one show so far, but father promised me we would see another soon.” I go on, until I realise how I must sound, over eager, with no sense to whom I'm talking too. I tuck loose hair behind my ears and try to settle myself, hoping Mr. Baelish doesn't see me as simply an immature child.

“Wonderful,” he smiles. I don't think I had seen a smile slip from his face yet “I frequent the theatre often myself, I should hope to see you there.”

With my family, I should think to add, but I don't. I only smile back.

“Yes, I'm looking forward to the season. Mother's already told me of two parties we've been invited too, and that I can have new dresses for them.” I find myself already back to boasting, just as I had chided myself for doing so, but I find I cannot help it. Arya never likes to talk of such things, and neither do brothers. All the friends I had, I left in the country. Perhaps I was simply starved for someone to talk to, to be so open with this man about my day to day.

At once I seem to see Mr. Baelish's eyes light up, and I see how vert green they can look if the light is in them just right “You like parties do you?”

I let out a laugh that can't be helped “Why, of course? Who doesn't like parties?”

He seems delighted by the news, and so in turn I am delighted to have said it “Why, my darling, I throw parties. It is my trade.” He says with an air that has me entirely enrapt.

“Parties?” I say “How can parties be ones trade?”

He throws a hand to the air as if it is nothing “When one happens to be good at throwing them.”

What a wondrous answer, I thought. This finely dressed man, with his air that has me entirely enrapt, plucked from nowhere to appear on my doorstep. It all seemed to lend to his utter un-reality, but that fact that he was, in fact, real and here before me, was terribly exciting.

“Will you be throwing any parties here in London?” I ask, as composed as I can manage, though I'm sure he can see the un-asked question just hanging from my lips as I perch on my seat, my face most likely a silent plea.

“Of course, sweet girl. I host some of the most spectacular parties of the year.” He says with an utter lack of modesty, as he leans back ever so slightly in his chair, as I lean ever forward “Why...would you like to attend?”

The eager yes hardly escapes my mouth fast enough, though it was that exact point in time that I hear the front door un-latch, and it was then that my family had decided to arrive home from church.

Mr. Baelish stands, and I follow suit, as the chatter of their arrival echoes through the hall, mother telling Rickon to scrape the mud off his boots, for Bran to hang up his coat, for Arya to run up and check on me, but of course, her chatter stops as soon as she turns the corner. As the presence of Mr. Baelish becomes apparent to her.

Her eyes fall quickly upon him, then to me, to the used plates, the glass of wine, and back again to Mr. Baelish, with a barely composed expression of shock. Understandably so I suppose. She had no idea we would be having a guest, no less her old school friend. For a second I feared perhaps they had not seen each other in so long that she did not recognise him, and so I step forward quickly.

“Mother, Mr. Baelish has come to see you.” I say “He only arrived not that long ago.”

“Oh,” she said, as Bran, Rickon and Arya peered curiously at the both of us in silence from behind her “Oh, my word, Petyr....it's been years.” she laughs somewhat offhandedly.

“Cat,” he says, quite comfortable using nothing but her first name, a pet name at that “It's good to see you again.”

I could not say if mother had simply been caught off guard, or if something else had her smile held taught (and I certainly hoped it was not my being out of bed) but if she had thought of anything to say, she hadn't the chance to say it, as Father entered, the front door closed behind him.

He seemed to eye Mr. Baelish with as much surprise as mother, as he stopped to look at him, and Im embarrassed to say his mouth hung slightly open in an unseemly manner.

“Baelish,” he said without courtesy “What are you doing in my home?”

I stood, shocked at my fathers brusque nature towards a guest, at the way my mothers eyes flitted towards the floor, my own eyes taking in all three of them at once, suddenly feeling as if I had done something wrong, though I couldn't say what. There was simply a feeling to the air that made one un-rested. To Mr, Baelish's credit he seemed to take the slight in his stride, that everlasting smile still in place as he stepped across to my father was a casual stride.

“I simply decided to call in at the wrong hour, it seemed,” he said with open palms “I'm embarrassed to say the notion that you would be out at church simply slipped my mind.”

“I am well aware you are not a godly man.” My father said in stern tones, so much so I almost shivered myself. No one could look stern like my father “Catelyn, go upstairs. Sansa, you too, and the rest of the children.”

“Come now, Sansa.” Mother ushered me from the room along with my siblings, but I craned my neck back to glance at Mr. Baelish, to father, where neither even hardly bothered to watch us leave, they seemed so preoccupied standing across from each other with some obvious kind of malice between them. I look back all along the hall, and as we are all but pushed up the stairs, I peer down from the bannister, and I see Arya do the same, as curious as I am about this apparition of a man, who to our knowledge had never been mentioned, but who no doubt held some kind of history with my mother and father both.

I am utterly lost at how this has all transpired, so quickly it went downhill, so that now I am nothing but confused and upset, where a minute ago I had been so enchanted. Now in place of such feeling I had been left with nothing but questions, and a certain unprecedented sadness, at the idea that I may never be able to feel the presence and un-reality of the man I had just met again.

**Author's Note:**

> New fic to fill the void ending 'Curiosity' left in my heart.
> 
> It's just so much fun to be smutty and flowery and prosey. 
> 
> Though of course, this time it will all be from Sansa's POV.
> 
> Tags will be added as smut gets underway.


End file.
